Reliquary's Choice: Book Two of The Celtic Prophecy (3 page)

“Will I be expected to … ?”

“I think you know the answer to that already, but we’re a long way from that. I think we got off track here.”

Brenawyn nodded, took a breath, and said, “So, willingness is the first requirement. What is the second? How many others are there?”

“The second is precision. You took the time to study the ritual; you said the proper words giving thanks to all the gods. How did you prepare?”

“I heard you practice it so many times, saw you perform it for years.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, not that I can remember … wait.”

“What?”

“Wait, wait. Let me think.” Brenawyn got up from the table and paced away, muttering to herself.

“Your grandfather did that.”

Brenawyn looked up, “Huh?”

“He mumbled to himself when he was thinking about something important. You reminded me of him just now.”

She smiled. “Nana, do you remember the night you told me that you were a Druid? A few days before the ceremony? I stormed out of the house to clear my head.”

“I remember.”

“Well, I ran into Alex and we ended up taking a walk to the ceremonial grounds. He was telling me stories about the ritual and what the officiant would do the night before.”

“Ah, did it have something to do with asking permission?”

“Yes, that was it.”

Leo nodded her head, “The picture is becoming clearer. Did you by chance ask permission?”

“Ugh, yes, I didn’t know what I was doing. I was so swept up in the story, that I didn’t even think that in so doing it might be seen as disrespectful.”

“Well, now it makes more sense that your latent abilities were activated by the thanksgiving ceremony. Brenawyn, would you do me a favor? Really think about this before you make a decision. Your life has become more complicated and dangerous, but I think it’s manageable yet. If you choose this you will own the danger. Choosing this lifestyle, you will be trained to use your magic and will be able to defend yourself. But make no mistake, if you accept this destiny, they will come for you, and there will be no going back.”

“So, no pressure then. Thanks.”

“Brenawyn. Just think about it. Please. Spend some time with Alexander. He knows all of the history; he can teach you the basics before you have to decide anything.”

“Speaking of Alexander. He’s a history professor, a priest, an occult connoisseur, a magic man and a werewolf?”

“A werewolf! Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a shape-shifter.”

“Oh, that clears everything up then.”

“Brenawyn, he’s the Shaman—a teacher and defender of the Old Ways.”

“The same Shaman that would have sex with the high priestess on Beltaine, to what—represent the fertility of the Earth? I’m supposed to be this high priestess? So, are you telling me that we are, what, fated to fall in love or something?

“Not that he’s decrepit and has leprosy or anything, he’s rather, well … extremely handsome, but really! You’re my grandmother for God’s sake. Aren’t you supposed to be guarding my virtue or something?”

“I am so glad I rate so high in yer esteem, Brenawyn.”

She turned to find Alexander standing directly behind her. Where had he come from? How had he approached so silently? Shit, why was he always here whenever she turned around? She felt the color creep up her neck, abashed, “I didn’t mean … I don’t think of you … I, I, I know I asked … well I don’t know what to think. Excuse me.” She brushed by him as if on a mission, wishing that she was back in Jersey, in her house. Life was so simple, so ordinary then.

She headed for her bedroom and softly clicked the door closed, although she wanted to slam it repeatedly to clear some frustration. She thought better of it, slamming the door was childish. Where was the dog? Oh, Maggie had him. Figures, just when she needed some canine comfort. Spencer didn’t want to turn her world upside down; he didn’t want her to discard her faith for a new one, so strangely different. He didn’t ask anything of her besides a belly rub and some doggie treats.

She flopped on the bed and crammed the sham under her chin. She lay like this for a while, looking at the pattern of the headboard’s wood grain but not seeing it. She sighed and turned her head to face the nightstand, the blue cloth of her mother’s journal stood out as a beacon.
Perhaps, I can get some comfort from Mom.
She reached for the journal and opened to a random page in the middle of the book.

August, 1982

Awake with a start. Smoke? Yanked forcibly from bed. Rescued? No …  captured. No sense. Why wasn’t it making any sense? Hands like vices held my arms pinned to my sides as unseen faces shoved and pinched. Fighting and trying to protect my swollen stomach, I didn’t try to fend off the punches that landed anywhere else. Tears streaming down my face as punches rained down on my head. Off balance and unprepared for the boot to the lower back, I found myself sprawled over the front threshold landing on my hands and knees in the mud. Peering over her shoulder struggling to see past the massed bodies, I could just see the newly carved trundle splintered, pieces strewn across the floor through the small space of the common room. Searching hopelessly around for help, flames licked at the edges of the curtains. The house was gone. Several men nearby tossed their torches onto the thatched roof. Thrust to my feet and dragged away, just before the cloth bag covered my face, the roof smoldered for endless moments and then in a big whoosh, it was consumed.

Lost to the passage of time, was today the third day or just the second? The clouds were a lighter gray interspersed at times with clear blue sky, even though it was still misting. I could hear the morning stirring of my neighbors; the jingle of a horse’s bridle and clop of its hooves as it passed, the clatter of shutters thrown open, soon a new volley of taunts and missiles would be sent my way.

Mud-splattered and chilled to the bone, I hugged the wall in a vain attempt to get some protection from the icy rain as it continued to patter down. Exposure allowed my gore to settle and with pity I observed the worms leach from the walls of the prison only to plop into a watery grave. I bent down to scoop up a worm from the nearly shin deep water and stuffed it in my mouth, barely chewing. I gagged but fought the reflex to vomit by quickly swallowing. I would be damned if I would eat the filth that had been thrown upon me. Stale and moldy bread, meat infested with maggots—fare not even fit for vermin. Worms were more appetizing given the options. I had to remain strong if for only a little while to see.

The first of my tormentors for the day arrived shortly after, a group of children. The children were the worst, fed lies and superstitions by their ignorant parents from birth; they knew no better and were merciless. Thinking of new forms of torment, these children, who I could picture in my mind because I knew each of them, threw a live snake into the pit with me. They laughed maniacally as I splashed to get away from it. I dug at the walls pulling at errant roots trying to climb above the water level. The roots gave and the rain-softened earth offered no holds as it oozed between my fingers. I turned, armed with a sharp stone I had dislodged, desperately trying to locate the serpent in the gloom. In one motion I pounced on it, finding myself on my knees in the muck grasping the writhing snake in my hand; I bashed it repeatedly until it no longer struggled. Screaming obscenities, I stood shakily and flung the bloody remains away from me.

August 23, 1982

He tells me that he found me out in the garden, mud stained and drenched, scribbling in my journal. He tells me it was a dream.

It was just a dream.

A nightmare.

But why I can still taste the worm?

September 15, 1982

I sleep alone now locked in our bedroom. The bolt he installed himself on the outside. Every time that bolt slides home, a little more of my hope dies with it.

Chapter 4

Brenawyn looked around room; the door was closed, and all she could think of was to get out. She needed to get away. She cracked the door and listened, no sound, good to slip out unnoticed. She tied her hikers on and with a glimpse down the hallway skirted out, only to find Alexander and her grandmother huddled in the corner whispering.

Her curiosity was peaked, but she had too much pride to ask what they were talking about, even though she was very sure it had something to do with her. Instead she announced, “I’m going out.”

Alexander looked up. “Wait, lass. We ha’ found another bundle, the same that I burned at the Salem house.” He offered it for Brenawyn to see.

“So?”

“T’was amongst yer effects haur in the attic. T’is meant for ye.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Ye doona ken, lass. This is a memory binding. This is the second o’ three.”

“I’m still not following.”

“Brenawyn, right now, tell me about yer husband.”

Looking askance at him, “Why?”

“A happy memory. Detailed.”

“Um, let’s see, there was the time he took me to see a play—what was it? It was …  hmm? That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“I can’t recall it.”

“Just as I thought.”

“What? Just as you thought about what? Because I can’t remember the name of the play? You asked me out of the blue. That’s why I can’t remember. It would be like I asked you to say something funny. You wouldn’t be able to do it.”

“A’richt, but humor me for a minute.” Alex strode passed her and into the kitchen, Nana following on his heels. “Sit doon, Brenawyn. Leo, stay by her just in case.”

He pulled a copper pot off the overhead rack placing it on the stovetop with a bang. A lit match was introduced to the dried twigs of the sachet and thrown into the pot. The bits caught instantly, that same strange smell pervading the room. Once the smell was in her nostrils,
she was back in Salem prying the first bundle from Spencer’s jaws on the staircase. Feeling the saliva-wet velvet bag, loosening its strings, and pouring out the dried herbs into her hand.
Alex knew what it was then too, as he snatched it from her. His reaction was the same as it was now, to burn the sachet.

It was too much to bear. Brenawyn could feel tension behind her eyes build, the onset of a headache. She pinched the bridge of her nose, massaging the area above futilely to try to relieve the pressure. “Put yer head doon, but continue ta breathe, Brenawyn. Help her, Leo.”

The intensity of the headache increased so the fading light of the setting sun burned her eyes and the overhead lights felt as if they pounded on her head. Brenawyn gave in; the tabletop looked like a welcome place, at least a place to keep her head from rolling off her shoulders.

I woke with a start back in my bedroom, the coverlet and sheets twisted in knots around my legs. Sweat drenched my body, but my hands went automatically to my swollen belly. A healthy kick answered back. I smiled.

The movement made getting up a necessity so I shuffled out of bed, and padded down to the bathroom. My back was turned to Liam, when he called out. I turned as I reached the bathroom door. The smile on my face disappeared when I saw the scowl on his. “

“What did I tell you about making the bed as soon as you get up?”

“I was just going to the bathroom; the baby is … ”

He ran his hands through his hair, and grunted. “It’s always the baby. I’m tired of you using him as an excuse to be lazy.”

“Liam, Please. I’ll make the bed just let me go … ”

He hesitated for a moment, but the decision was visible on his face as soon as he made it. It happened so quickly, he turned and punched the wall bellowing, and stalked down the hall to me grabbing my arm painfully. “No. You will do it now!”

I cringed, covering my stomach with my free hand, and tried to pull away to retreat into the safety of the bathroom, “Please, I have to go.”

He pulled me along, urine trickled down my legs. Panic set in. It would make him angrier. I tried to stop it, but only succeeded in resisting his pull. He turned on me, nostrils flaring, and looked down. I tried to hide it, tried to cover the wetness, but he saw.

He turned up his nose in disgust, and yanked on my arm.

“Please, you’re hurting me.”

“Stop it, bitch!”

“Please, you’ll hurt the baby!”

“And if I do, it will be your fault. Now get in there!”

He stepped on the toe of my worn out sock when he pivoted me around him. I stumbled and suddenly, I was free of Liam’s punishing grip. I reached out to the railing—

Brenawyn opened her eyes despite the searing headache, heaved, and vomited on her grandmother’s kitchen floor. She shook from the exertion and the fragmented memory. The pounding started to lessen and she slumped boneless to the table, silently wracked by sobs.

Gentle hands were rubbing her back; strong arms lifted her from the chair, over her mess and carried her into the dim living room to be wrapped in the crocheted afghan cuddled into the corner of the couch.

Alex moved the coffee table and knelt in front of her. Her grandmother hovered nearby.

“
A chuisle
, tell me, what are ye remembering?”

Brenawyn clamped her lips shut and shook her head.

“T’would be better if ye told us.”

She shook her head again, tears spilling over, and wrapped her arms about herself, rocking back and forth.

Alex sat next to her and tried to gather her in his arms. She stiffened. She didn’t want to be touched. How could it be possible? She had never been pregnant. How could she have been? She would remember. How could she forget? How could she know what it felt like? Doubt. Was this what insanity feels like? Her heart pounded in her chest. Her mind raced, screamed at her to run, to get away from him, from here. Her mind rebelled at what her gut was telling her was true. The memory of the living heaviness, both foreign and home simultaneously, the secret butterflies, and early movement almost undetectable, the pressure that almost tickled, only for the briefest of times. Secret shared moments between mother and child. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit something. She wanted to hurt. How could she forget! How could she forget?

She felt Alex reposition himself and try to pull her close, offering comfort. He must have felt the change in her. She resisted. There was no comfort he could give her. She didn’t deserve any. She had forgotten about her child—her son. Her son! What—where was he? What had happened? But her gut told her she knew already.

Leo finally, put her hand on his arm, “Let me.”

Alex looked up at Leo, and back at Brenawyn, before making a move off the couch. At his movement she pulled further away from him, pressing herself awkwardly into the cushions shaking, her head coming to rest as she stared at the ceiling.

“Go. Let us just sit awhile.”

“We canna leave her like this, Leoncha. Two o’ the bindings are destroyed, but likely, the third is no’ haur. I ha’ ta bring her to Tir-Na-Nog for the goddess ta release her mind.”

“You cannot do it here?”

“Aye,” Alex paced away, but returning quickly, shaking his head. “Nay, I canna. I doona ken enough about the original spell ta safely remove the rest. I’d just as likely make her permanently daft.”

“Then go and prepare.”

Alex glanced back to see Brenawyn crumble into the arms of her grandmother.